


Running

by grey853



Category: Harsh Realm
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey853/pseuds/grey853
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Pinocchio is injured by Waters, but is resistant to any help or attention from Tom Hobbes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running

**Author's Note:**

> This occurs during and after the third episode "Inga Fosse".

Mike Pinocchio pushed away from the wall of the cell, using one hand to steady himself and the other to hold his guts in place. No way out, no windows, and only one guarded steel door. No way to escape from what he'd worked so hard to avoid, for how long? Months, years? Hell, he couldn't remember anymore. Everything spiraled down to the gritty darkness of Harsh Realm. Nothing else mattered or existed and if it tried to, he just shoved it away, wrestled it back to the darker, more shadowy places inside his head, places he avoided like battery acid for breakfast. 

Bitter blood painted his tongue as he cleared his throat again and spat in the corner, the stain just one of many on the floor. Cold sweat washed his skin as the dizziness struck again. He barely got to the cot and collapsed before the door opened and Mel Waters walked in and locked the security door behind him. 

"Having a little trouble there, Pinocchio? Didn't think I hit you that hard."

"You didn't, but your fucking boot did."

"Too bad. Next time I'll aim better. Might enjoy messing up that smug face of yours just for old time's sake. Now, sit up." Waters stepped closer, his voice low and threatening. 

Struggling, he worked against the onslaught of rebellious muscles, the spasms outraged at any movement. Waters jerked him up and slammed him face first into the wall, his heavier body pressed in behind him, the tainted breath carrying his words to Mike's ear. "Do you have any idea what kind of shit happened after you took off?" Waters yanked his head back by his hair, his right arm wrapping around Mike's throat, the steady choke cutting off his air. "Do you?"

"Santiago's crazy, Mel. You have to know that."

"All I know is what the son of a bitch did to me after he found out you'd betrayed him." His grip tightened, his voice grating and rough, but suddenly intimate. "When you betrayed him, my friend, not me." He ground his hips against Mike's backside, the erection obvious as he rubbed harder. "You owe me, you bastard. He fucked me and pretended it was you, pretended that you were the one he was hurting."

"Sick fuck."

"Exactly." Shifting behind him, Waters used his knee to force his legs apart, his balance held up only by the support of the lock around his neck. "Now, I've got your woman. And your job. And there's only one thing left to take."

"Shit, Mel. Don't do this." 

Using his arms, Mike tried to break the hold only to have his head banged twice into the wall quickly, the stunning force enough to spin him to the edge of black. By the time light returned he found his pants unzipped and down, the cold air against his ass quickly replaced by a hot cock and the scratch of pubic hair as Waters moved into position.

Invasion burned like a huge club forced into him, the ramming like rushing fire tearing his insides, the grunts primal as Waters set a brutal rhythm. Each thrust brought on agony, the urgent pumping working in unison with a beefy arm restricting his air more and more, the power of each vicious piston forward lifting his whole body. Wild cramps tore up though this belly, his legs traitors as he gagged on bile rolling upward. His head roared, the rush like losing himself in thunder but having the lightning bolt still slicing him in half, his mind overloaded. Waters bowed his spine and held him tighter as he spasmed, his body jerking and shuddering, the final few strokes desperate. 

Release dropped Mike to his knees, his body unable to hold his own weight, his thinking dazed, his vision blurred. Strong hands dragged him back up and tossed him to the cot. "Now, we're almost even."

His voice shook in rebellion against talking. "What the fuck else is there?"

"Hobbes."

"Let him go, Mel. He doesn't belong here."

"He's the fucking savior of the people, or haven't you heard?"

"He's just a dumbfuck soldier like the rest of us."

"Liar. You know who he is."

The world tilted into a swallowing grey as he spoke, his words floating out barely formed. "But he doesn't."

&&&&&&&&

Waking took caution, his eyes squeezed shut against the persistent throb connecting the ruins of his body. Slowly, he opened his eyes to find Florence, his silent protector, gently petting his hair back from his forehead. He croaked out a rough few words, the rusty scrape from the blood clogging his throat hard to talk through. "Hey, Flo."

She didn't speak, of course. Didn't have to. Her eyes met his without judgment, brimming with compassion rather than pity. He loved her and she knew it, treasured it, and wrapped it in the mantle of loyalty. 

"She don't talk much, mister."

He turned his attention to the raggedy young boy sitting near him, large brown eyes staring and frightened.

"Yeah, I know. We're friends."

"I sort of figured. Guards dragged you in here and she took over. You were completely out of it, but she got you over here in the corner real quick like."

Smiling tore his lip again, but he nodded. "She's like that."

"Must be good to have a friend."

"Yeah, it is." He coughed suddenly, the wrenching pain pulling against his chest and backside. More blood spilled down his chin before he could wipe it away. By the time he could breathe again, he found his head gently directed to rest on Florence's thighs, the warm comfort meaning more than he wanted it to. 

"They beat you pretty bad, huh?"

"I'm okay, kid. Don't worry." He closed his eyes while he spoke, even the low light of the crowded cell hard on his pounding temples. "What's your name?"

"Joseph."

"What are you doing here, Joseph?"

"Santiago's men found us stealing at the edges of the city. We were starving, man."

"Us?"

"My mom and me."

"Is she here, too?"

The hesitation forced his eyes open to see the young boy push back his dark hair as he huddled in the corner, his thin arms wrapped around himself. "They took her away. I don't know where."

But Mike knew too well where they took her. Pretty men and women ended up in the pleasure camps, or reprogrammed as servants, or sometimes just ended up wiped from the game, erased from memory. He wanted to say it, but the calming touch of Flo's fingers combing his hair softened his voice. The importance of truth was so fucking relative. 

"She'll show up sometime. You just have to keep looking." 

"Yeah, well, I have to get my ass out of here first."

"Just don't do anything stupid."

"Is that what you did?"

"What?"

"Is that why they beat you up?"

Laughing hurt too much, the shift of muscle against fractured ribs lancing pain through his chest. "No, I just didn't run fast enough."

He settled back into the quiet of his own thoughts for a while, his mind drifting away, the protests of his body muted by the tender touches of his friend's palm against his forehead. Shallow breaths made his thinking less foggy, his mind wandering, dancing first with hope and then darkness. Hobbes should be home now, finding Sophie, finding out the truth about why running didn't suit him. 

Fuck home. 

Fuck reality. 

Not an option in the world of Mike Pinocchio.

The nudge at his shoulder brought his attention back to the light of arrival. Hobbes walked through the door, a fair-haired messiah holding the key to a future he wanted no part of, a future that would lead to nothing but even more losses.

&&&&&&

"Get your hands off."

"You're hurt. Let me help." Mike jerked away only to stumble to the ground, more blood spilling down his chin as he coughed. The world spun in a huge circle and he wanted to just lie down for a while. "Look, Pinocchio, we're never going to make it anywhere if you won't let us help."

"Just leave me here then. Florence can show you the way."

"Not going to happen. Now, come on. You can either lean on me or I can carry your ass. What's it going to be?"

The dog Dexter yapped once and nudged at his boot before coming up close to his face ready to take a big lick. He shoved the mutt away and took Hobbes's arm to stand, but found himself too light-headed not to drag down again. "You're a stubborn bastard, you know that?"

"Look who's talking."

"It's too far. I don't know if I can make it."

"You only have to make it to the car."

"The car's still there?"

"According to Florence, yeah."

"Then we need to check for tracking devices. Waters had to have found it."

"Maybe he didn't know it was yours."

"He knows."

An involuntary shudder almost dropped him down again, but Hobbes tightened his grip. Just thinking of Waters made him gag and he jerked away long enough fall to his knees and empty his stomach, a mix of blood and bile coating the ground. A hand rubbed his shoulders, the silent contact enough to burn his eyes with both anger and tears. As soon as the retching stopped, Hobbes handed him a cloth to wipe his mouth and then helped him back to his feet. "You're in bad shape. We need to get you some place safe quick and find a doctor."

"Doctor? Yeah, right. You're in Harsh Realm, remember?"

"So?"

"So, how many doctors do you think you need in a place like this? None."

"What about Florence? Someone shot me when I first got here and she healed me."

"You healed yourself."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's how it works. Now, shut up. It hurts to talk."

They walked on, the awkward pace made worse by the terrible crushing darkness just to the side of his vision. Everything wavered around him, but he continued to hang on, cling to the strong man holding him up. Finally, he saw the car and they stopped just long enough to get him in the back seat and to start the engine. Florence drove while Hobbes stared down at him, his blue eyes too knowing for a face so young. An unexpected bump caught him off guard and he groaned too loudly.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"Yeah, right. What did you mean before?"

"About what?"

"About healing myself?"

God, he was tired of explaining, of trying to make this man understand all the shit it took him so long to learn. "It's complicated. Maybe later."

"I need to know."

"And I'll tell you, but not now, okay?"

"Okay. Go to sleep. I'll wake you when we get there."

He stayed silent for a bit longer and then spoke again. "You should've gone when you could."

"We can't touch Santiago in the real world. Here we stand a chance."

"You're dreaming."

"So they tell me."

&&&&&&&&

A tongue licked down his neck, the slick wet heat stirring up the ribbons of tension into his gut, down into his groin. Thighs grew heavy as his cock hardened within the hand of the man stroking him, the easy cadence of his hips matching the movements like a craving through his whole body. No pain held him captive as lips locked over his, his lungs wanting for air, the need for more contact rocking him back, his head slamming harder into an angle of pleasure. Sweet whimpers trapped him beneath Tom's body, the grinding push a call to action. 

Mike wanted so much to hold him, to keep him safe, to keep him forever away from fate and Inga and Sophie.

Shimmers of panic swelled up and strangled cries woke him, a hand in the middle of his chest pushing him back against the bed. "Stay still before you hurt yourself." 

Disoriented, he couldn't focus, couldn't take in the dim, frigid world of the shelter. Tattered quilts covered him, soaking up the cold sweat that filtered awareness. "Where are we?"

"In a cave about twenty miles outside of the city. Florence is just above us guarding the entrance."

"I don't know this place."

"It's secure, so don't worry about it." Hobbes rinsed out a cloth in cool water and folded it before putting it over his forehead. "You've got a fever and you're still bleeding."

"Bleeding?"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

"Look, you don't have to tell me what happened, but we need to find someone who knows what to do, how to fix this."

"Nothing happened."

"Like I said, you don't have to tell me. But you do need to tell me what to do. If I can heal myself, why can't you?"

His head fell back, the effort to sit up and keep his eyes open a lost cause. "Only some people can heal themselves, and even then it's only under certain circumstances."

"And you're not one of the ones?"

"Obviously not."

"But why?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"I don't know, but I think you do. I think you're running away from more than just Santiago."

"Fuck you, Hobbes. Who the hell made you god?"

"Nobody."

Shaking took over and he turned over on his side, his muscles twitching against the betrayal of his bones. "Just leave me alone, okay?"

"I can't." His hand took the cloth and rinsed it out again, this time using it to wipe away the sweat and oil beading on face. "I owe you."

"You don't owe me shit and I sure as hell don't want to owe you. Nobody asked you to stay here."

"Inga said..."

He captured Tom's wrist and struggled to keep his voice steady. "Don't trust her, Hobbes. I'm warning you."

"Tell me what happened."

"Nothing."

"Just like nothing happened when you were captured?"

"Leave it alone."

"When you tell me about Inga."

"She's a soul-eater, man."

"A what?"

"Soul-eater. She worms her way in, wins your trust, and then devours your soul before you even know what the fuck happened."

"Is that what she did to you here in Harsh Realm?"

"No, in the real world. She's why I'm here, why I'll die here."

"I don't understand."

"And you never will. If you had any sense at all, you would've left and gone back to Sophie as fast as you could."

"I want my wife and child to have a world, and not a place like this, but a real one. Some place where it's safe."

"What's real, Hobbes?" He squeezed the wrist harder, his fingernails indenting the skin. "Don't kid yourself. You feel it here, it's just as real as back in that other world." 

"Let go."

As he released him, he shut his eyes, the pull of sleep too strong, his breathing slow and labored. "I'm tired."

"I know."

"You don't know shit, Hobbes."

"I know that, too, which is why I can't let you die."

"I'm not planning to die."

"I wasn't planning on coming into Harsh Realm either."

"Good point." Hands tucked the covers up closer around his neck, the effort to speak growing more painful. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will. Eventually."

Just the way he said it begged the question, "How do you know?"

"I just do. Just like I know we can defeat Santiago if we work together."

"Then we're in a lot of trouble."

"Why's that?"

"Because we don't work together."

"Sure we do."

"Since when?"

"Since you saved my ass and we became partners."

Mike took a deep breath, swallowing back his own denial of the appeal of having Tom Hobbes find any value whatsoever in his deep shit existence. Life in Harsh Realm just got a hell of a lot more challenging. He'd always lived for the dare of survival, but now he just had to figure out a way to finish the game without being crippled by his own fear of returning to a world that scared him more than any hellhole Santiago could ever imagine.

"Partners, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You trust me?"

"Dexter does, so I do."

"What? You let the dog decide who to trust?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes, I just know a good man when I see him." 

He avoided the eyes, and shook his head before burrowing back down under the quilt, the darkness less threatening. "You're a crazy bastard, Hobbes."

A hand touched the back of his neck, the fingers warm and firm. "And that's why we can win."

And for just a few breaths before slumber, Mike Pinocchio almost believed.

The end


End file.
